


Content

by underthenorthstar



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Babies, Daughters, Drabble, F/M, Family Fluff, Future Fic, Soft Ivar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 03:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18541792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underthenorthstar/pseuds/underthenorthstar
Summary: The world will remember Ivar as king and warrior, but his peace comes as husband and father.(Also known as Ivar With Only Daughters)





	Content

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t posted anything on here for ages (or written anything for that matter), but I’m posting old things on here for shits and giggles. I haven’t seen the most recent season of Vikings, this was written before that. Just some indulgent fluffy fluff, me running with a cute idea.

"We're going to have another sister."

Ivar looks at his daughter, curled up against his side. Her wooden runestones are scattered in front of them in the mud, a jumble of symbols he knows but cannot interpret. He does not have his late mother's gift. Inga does.

"Do the runes tell you that?" He asks, tucking the furs around the sleeping little one in his arms carefully. Katla makes a soft cooing noise, but does not wake. She is barely 2 winters old, and sleep comes easy. 

"I dreamt it," Inga informs him, gathering the runes back up in her leather pouch. "Just last night. These runes are telling me we will have good fishing this year. You tell the fishermen, they will be happy."

Ivar cannot help but laugh softly. Inga may only be a child of 8 winters, but she is heavy with the gift of the seer. It makes her speak like a grown woman. His little old woman, he calls her. She hates it.

"I wish I could go in," Jorunn sighs, looking wistfully behind her at the Great Hall. "I want to help!"

"Maybe next time, min elske," Ivar says, trying pointedly to ignore the pout Jorunn sends his way. "Your mother did not want you to see, in case it was hard, like with Katla."

"I am a big girl," his healer child grumbles, and Ivar laughs again. The sound never fails to feel foreign, even after all these happy years.

"Papa! Eidunn refuses to give me back my axe!"

His oldest two children barrel towards him, clothes muddy and cheeks red from the chilly spring wind. Eidunn is grinning widely, Alfdis looks distraught.

"I won it fair. I knocked her down and took it while she tried to catch her breath," Eidunn skids to a halt in front of him. "She did not keep her shield up."

"Good work, Eidunn," Ivar praises his flourishing shieldmaiden, and she practically vibrates with pride. "Alfdis, what have I told you about keeping your shield up? You will have your head taken off, and who will then be Queen after me?"

His eldest hangs her head in shame. "I know, Papa. Uncle Hvitserk has been yelling at me all morning. I will do better, I swear to Thor!"

"You must, and he will hold you to that," Ivar's voice is stern. His wife tells him he is too firm with his heir. He tells her she needs to be ready. The world does not accept soft rulers, and he will not have a daughter of his be unprepared. "Eidunn will keep your axe until you can win it back."

"Yes, Papa," her voice is somber, defeated. His heart gives a little pang. He used to be so much harder, he thinks. Then he had daughters, and he feels as soft and tender as freshly spun wool.

"Come here, ducklings," he commands, and all his treasures flock to him like birds to a tree. "Shall we have a story while we wait?"

"Oh yes!" They all scramble to sit as close to him as possible. Katla stirs and opens her eyes, but does not move, content to listen from her warm cocoon. He begins one of their favourite tales: How the Serpent Defeated the Bear and the Dogs and Won Back His Kingdom. 

He is only halfway through when the doors to the Hall burst open behind him. His children jump up, excitement spreading on their eager young faces. His heart pounds suddenly in his chest. 

"Well? Out with it!"

"King Ivar, all is well," the slave girl says breathlessly. "The Queen is requesting your presence."

His daughters cheer; he allows himself a smile. He motions for Alfdis to take Katla while he grabs his crutches and stands. His girls rush ahead of him into the Hall, shrieking and laughing. 

He will admit his wife looks exhausted (childbearing is hard work, he does not envy her), but she greets him with a loving smile as their bed is overrun with happy daughters. 

"Jora will bring the baby back in a moment," she says as he sits down beside her. He smooths her damp hair back from her forehead, leaning in to press his lips reverently to the smooth skin. Another birth, another day she lives. The gods smile upon the woman who holds his heart, and he is forever grateful. "She is just checking everything over, but she says the legs are fine."

"Is it a son? Or am I to be outnumbered even further?" His voice is light; he does not really care. None of his children have his condition. He has children when he thought he'd never get them. He has already been given more than he could ever have dreamed. 

His wife looks guilty. Inga huffs as if she is insulted he would even ask. Jora chooses that moment to re enter the room. She crosses to the bed and he immediately holds out his arms. The weight of the bundle feels better than any spoils of war.

"Congratulations, my King," the old midwife's voice is full of mirth. "She is beautiful."

His children erupt into happy squeals. Inga looks pleased with herself. His wife gives him a sheepish smile. He feels as if his heart may burst.

The babe in his arms stirs, perfect and healthy, her blue eyes piercing through him like the sun through the mist. He runs his hand over the soft downy fuzz on her head, the same colour as his. His sixth daughter. His sixth blessing. 

"Sorry," his wife murmurs beside him, but he shushes her. 

"There is nothing to be sorry for. The gods have given me yet another healthy, beautiful child. Another duckling for my flock. I do not care that she is not a son. She is healthy and alive, and my blood lives on. Besides," he grins at her, "there is always next time."

She groans, but a smile spreads across her face. "There will be a next time, will there? Is not six children enough?"

He leans in to press his lips to hers. "I can never get enough of seeing you round with my child, or holding my newborn children." 

"Papa, stop kissing Mother and let us see our new sister," Alfdis demands, and he pulls always from his sweet wife to allow his daughters to crowd around him. They coo over their baby sister, touching her reverently as she gazes serenely up at them. 

"What will we name her?" Jorunn asks. 

He looks at his wife. She looks back at him. They fought over names, as usual. 

"Dagny," Inga pipes up, and her young seer's eyes get a far away look. "I dreamed that, too."

"Dagny it is then," he affirms, looking once again at the child cradled in his arms. She blinks her big blue eyes at him, mouth puckering into a quiet yawn. He leans down and presses his lips to her tiny cheek.

I will protect you, littlest duckling, he vows silently. I will show you how to be Viking, how to be a daughter of Ivar the Boneless. I will love you with everything that I am. I will give you a home, and all that that entails. I will let you be what you wish to be, whatever path the gods have chosen for you. You have my word. 

He pulls back; his wife is smiling, unshed tears in her eyes. His daughters are already crowding back around him, each demanding to hold their new sister. He thinks about how far he has come, how much his life has changed. How an angry, bitter young man became a king, a husband, a father. How he has been granted more joy than he could ever have imagined. How he loves completely, and is wholeheartedly loved in return. 

One day, the sagas will sing of how Ivar, King of all Norway, conquered lands, slayed his enemies, spread his fame. He will be remembered for his deeds and his success, his cunning mind and his sharp blade.

But this, these moments, they are what he will remember his own life for. More than battles, more than glory, more than any riches. 

And Ivar the Boneless is content.


End file.
